Arms of Steel: The Lost Crusade

"Do you swear to always protect all women, the needy, and the weak? Do you swear to smite all demons, warlocks, and serpents of sin? Do you swear to be a good Christian Knight, and always keep your word, even to spiders and worms?"

"I swear."

"Then rise." At this, the great sword Witchslayer clanged to the ground. Sir Athelstane's mighty, perfect body shook and collapsed like a cut down tree. Sir Sigurd rushed close.

"My Liege, I have served with you for three years. Not once have I ever asked 'why' for anything, even when we went East to explore. But...Sir, tell me, please, why are we here? Od's Blood, we must be halfway to Cathay or the Japans. I am not an uneducated man, but I must confess I had never even heard of Rupalistan 'ere now."

Sir Athelstane shut his eyes and winced with pain. "Of course, that's the beauty of it. Rupalistan, tiny, quiet mountain kingdom. But it is in fact the most important little country on the face of the earth. For Rupalistan alone contains secret passageways to the Dreamtime."

"I have heard the Princess Erzhad speak of it. My Liege, what IS the Dreamtime?"

"The Dreamtime is the home of the Beast-Gods. They are lands not on any mortal map, but accessible if one knows secret passages. It is called many names: White Cathay, Avalon, Prester John's Kingdom."

"But of all its names, the 'Dreamtime' suits it best, because it is both the ancient past...and yet, it is also a place that can be visited today."

Sir Sigurd shook his head in confusion.

The eyelids of the great warrior Sir Athelstane shook and his mouth opened, exhaling. He did not inhale back again. Sir Sigurd could not believe that this magnificent body full of strength and life, could ever die and be home to worms and crawling creatures.

"Farewell, Sir Athelstane. You were born a criminal, but you did not die one." Sir Sigurd shut the eyes, and removed the platinum ring and placed it on his own hand.

A turbaned mameluke came in with a tray of dates, that he nearly dropped. "By Vishnu! Sir Athelstane, is he poisoned?"

"Nay! Nay! Give a moment, sirrah." The Knight said, pushing him aside.

When he was certain the mameluke had left, Sir Athelstane shut his eyes, and he touched the great white diamond on the ring.

Sir Sigurd felt a jangling and a jolt. When his eyes opened, he saw the room entirely from a different angle and position. When he rose to stand up, it was as if he kept on standing and standing and didn't stop. He looked down at the room as if he stood on top of a large crate, his head brushed the ceiling. He felt his heavy, dangling arms press into his wide torso's swell; he had to hold them out slightly. He felt his center of gravity change, his torso was a top with huge shoulders and a big chest atop a much smaller waist.

Sir Sigurd's body felt so heavy, yet also moved so effortless and fast, like the coiling of springs.

Sir Sigurd looked down and could not see below his gigantic pec shelves, their huge clifflike break and deep trenchlike line of separation visible in his tunic and chain mail. He flexed one mighty pec, that almost burst through his clothing like a charging bull against a fence; then the other side in a rhythm.

What a satisfying grin and a laugh, Sir Sigurd flexed his brass colored, enormous arms. What size his giant monster pythons had! He felt the muscles move under his skin, bounce and collect; he could feel his mighty heart pumping blood through his veins. He took a deep breath and found he took in three times more, inside lungs that were each the size of a gallon jug. He felt the room shake with a deep voice that was not his own, until a vase nearly collapsed off a table.

Sir Sigurd placed his hands together and with a swinging blow whose rattlesnake-leap speed frightened even him, he playfully smashed his macelike hands against a giant palace column. The column's marble broke against his blow into cracked pebbles as if it was as thin as cracker, sending chunks of it the size of a human head flying across the room, utterly split in twain.

Sir Sigurd stomped the ground playfully like a bad Cossack dancer and his movements were rewarded with a quake of the ground.

Sir Sigurd never before felt so powerful. The strongmen of the past, Hercules or his namesake, Sigurd or Siegfried, must have been midget weaklings in comparison to Sir Athelstane's – his – power! He squeezed his arm and the surface of his muscle felt like touching a warm statue; even his hand could not entirely cup his bicep.

When he bowleggedly bent his horselike legs to either side, Sigurd, the new Sir Athelstane, felt something dangle as heavy as three lead weights. He raised his tunic and mail and opened the waistband of his hose to look on his enormous genitals. His penis was a big club, and he could feel the pinball-like ping and splink of his virile, swimming seed in between his legs, the fruit of his groin. His testes each were the size of chicken eggs. And touching his spheres was like holding a ball of brass. He could feel his set of big he-man balls swell his body with courage, filling his body with muscle-building hormones; if anything was the secret of Sir Athelstane's growth and strength, they were it.

Sir Athelstane's arms possessed an impressive reach; he could touch either side of the walls of his room if he stretched his arms. With a snap of his hand he swooped and grabbed the Witchslayer and pulled it free from its sheath with a satisfied slither. The metal itself hummed when he sliced air with it, even the slightest turn of the weapon released a hiss. Though the blade was leaf-shaped and thick and sliced the curve-shaped swords of the Turks during the First Crusade, to Sir Athelstane's arms, the fifty-pound blade was light as a child's balsawood toy, and he wielded the giant lethal implement as if it was a thin rapier or a flyswatter.

Sir Athelstane started to laugh loudly and mockingly. "Come, Brahma-Rishi, I have your ring...will you not try to claim it?" He flexed his arms together with an intimidating crab flex that was scary enough to cause most men's testicles to withdraw into their bodies, and make a charging rabid rhino snort and run the opposite direction.

Sir Athelstane sheathed the Witchslayer again. If only his libido could likewise be sheathed; his brawny muscles began to heat up at the thought of the Princess, and his club dick stretched and fattened with ardor, and the bubbling ocean of his powerful blood that filled his penis. The blood loss to fill his oversized member made him dizzy.

The Princess! He remembered his vow to his friend, Sir Athelstane, (Pierre du Auvergne) to protect the Princess, the woman they both loved. He sheathed his sword. If only his great club could be sheathed as easily.

Rushing through the palace with a burst of thoroughbred speed, Sir Athelstane grasped the knob of the princess's door and pulled the door hinges, which gave way like melted cheese. He tossed the huge piece of cedarwood aside like rubbish. The Princess Erzhad's opulent boudoir was filled with silk sheets and scented pillows. On the walls were fierce-pointed implements of war and the hunt, spears and maces, shields and bows of all kinds. The merger of the two elements seemed fitting for the Princess Erzhad's character. Sir Athelstane paused in mid-stride.

The Princess reclined on a couch, her nubile petite body flexible as a yawning cat as she smoked from a hookah and read the Vedas on plates. She wore a gold-embroidered vermillion sari and gold colored armlets. She hid her startled face coyly like a harem girl.

"Why, Sir Athelstane! Whatever has gotten into you?"

"You! Love for you. Oh, how I burn for you, my Diana..." The Saxon's power prick stiffly extended out his lower tabard tented in a shape like a pyramid. The length quivered and shook when pumped with blood. It looked as if he had a third thigh between the other two that was held straight out, which gradually stretched like a telescope.

The Princess rose from her pillows. Her warm little hands clutched at the sides of the big stud, her face right in the middle of his ridged abs. Sir Athelstane, in a frenzy, removed his white and red cross Crusader tunic and shucked to the side of the room his hooded chain mail, which on his upper body felt as light as rice paper. His erect phallus burst to full size.

The princess Erzhad gazed at the wriggling tree trunk in his hose with awe, and when it was revealed she felt as if she had been dealt a physical blow and became dizzy. She nearly fell down as if the ground below her had become ice.

Sir Athelstane held her up, his rough, huge hands on either side of her wide hips. The Princess clocked her hips from side to side like a gypsy dancer, as Sir Athelstane peeled the gossamer-thin fabric off, which took some doing with her wide, womanly hips. She wriggled and laughed like an eel. Sir Athelstane tore her top with a snatch, leaving her hard, small chocolate-colored nipples free.

Sir Athelstane's calcified, stiff ultrawand slid and pressed against Erzhad's skin like a cat hungry for warmth, its surface hot as a searing branding iron that rolled and teasingly traced the half-circle circumference of her tight young breasts.

With each new touch, the undersexed Princess's body burned back as hot as a sun. With each new stroke, Erzhad shut her eyes, her back popped into an arch, and she alternated between hisses, pants, animal screeches, and throaty orgasmic moans. For the white Christian, foreplay was like playing a musical instrument that released different tones when he touched different places. All the virgin Princess's held-back sexual want exploded volcanically to the surface. It was as if every single part of her body from head to toe was as sensitive and filled with nerve clusters as her pussy was. She flashed white hot between her legs in the groin.

The hunkish blond Saxon took a palace luxury ice cube from a wet dish and slid its cold surface over the Princess's breasts, her inch-long nipples stiffened to glass-cutter gumdrops. He ran the it over her hard abs and pressed it with his finger against her quinny lips; in seconds the cube was lukewarm water that dripped between his fingers.

Sir Athelstane slipped his mast point-first between the princess's pneumatic coffee-brown chest balloons, which swallowed his girder between them like a tossed pebble is swallowed by a lake. Her breasts trapped his staff pointfirst between them like six layers of clothing. The Saxon could feel the soft, nebulous surface of her deep cleavage envelop him totally. Erzhad felt a grape-sized dribble hit her on the breastbone like an airsoft gun pellet.

Erzhad then felt the entire length of the great knight's pork prong shake with roaring volume of seed like a high-pressure water-pipe. Until at last his slit opened to the width of a coin and gushed like a faucet between her breasts with jet-intensity and voluminous splatter that hit her skin with a force like a punch, the rocket propulsion of which sent her flying out from him and sprawl on her back. Sir Athelstane stood above the Princess still, his dick so massive it cast a shadow on Erzhad that blocked out the light.

When he came, his penis recoiled and popped up and back with each peach-sized globule burst of magma-hot white slop, which slapped her and exploded against her cinnamon skin, occasionally a misfire would launch like a shell and smash vases. Sir Athelstane could feel his fist-sized sperm factories tighten, contract and shrink.

When he finally squirted the last streaming ribbon flicker from his elephant-endowment, the boudoir looked wet as if a flood had passed through, and the Princess herself lay on the ground in a disk shaped puddle, from her now wet black hair to her ankles, and looked like a fly caught in a water-droplet. The Princess grasped her drenched black hair and squeezed the hot white spunk from it like it was a used mop. Her body was covered with his man-ooze to the point where there were few places her brown skin could be seen. The Princess squeezed and pressed her firm, buxom breasts together to feel the sticky, tarlike cum between them.

Carelessly, the Saxon turned his naked, Herculean buck build around, and his excited, stiff trouser-stalactite slammed into the wall and broke the plaster, as well as caused a nearby tapestry to clatter to the ground.

The Saxon dropped to the ground in a crawl like a tiger, the tip of his meat hitting the ground even when crouched. He bent low to kiss her, but to his astonishment his lips met her pussy instead. The Princess was a trained contortionist, standing on her hands, and her entire body was bent in a U-shape. The Virgin Princess felt the warmth of his head bury itself inside her, pushing against it, his nose against her inner, sensitive skin. He could feel she was a virgin.

The Princess bent her muscled, plastic legs all the way back until her ankles were at the same level as her ears. Her knees were at his shoulder, and with a shove like an expanding spring made with surprising strength, she pushed him onto his back, with the Maharaja's daughter above him.

She greedily and covetously slid her tongue down the length of the pole, and eyed it as if it was already her property. His massive column thrust toward the heavens like a tower. The Princess's knees touching the ground, as she impulsively and uncontrollably impaled herself on his horn.

Erzhad let out a scream; his head burst through her maidenhead like a battering ram breaking through a screen door. She felt her walls shudder internally with the sudden, stingingly painful pop of her cherry. She became crosseyed as his great spike dug into her, shocking her entire body; it was like she was masturbating with a lightning bolt. The Princess felt as if she was being torn and wedged in half by his sheer mass. He could see where he was in her from the outside of her body, a great log-shaped roll on the surface on her otherwise flat belly. Her lower lips were stretched by the mug-thick mass that made her eyes go so wide that they nearly popped out of her sockets. Her kegels clamped down upon him with a vice grip and her body shook. She made no noise at her first orgasm; the pleasure was too intense for that.

Erzhad felt his monster pole drill, thrust and break into her insides with growing intensity that made her whole body shake and vibrate. When he pushed in her, it felt like the head of his was tickling her neck. When he was below her, he moved and bucked up and down with furious rhythm like a wild stallion and if not for the fact his steel girder was gripped inside the princess, he would have thrown her off. To Erzhad, she was tossed up and down as if adrift in a roaring crashing sea during a storm. Her body was slick with sweat that pooled over her mocha skin and acted as a lubricant.

The Princess Erzhad straddled his body, her voluminous ass slapped and paddled its great weight against his hips. Sir Athelstane was charitably five or six times her size, but her hard muscle ground against the Saxon. She crashed her small body into him angrily and violently, as if she was breaking in a particularly naughty horse. In the heat of the moment she slapped him on the lips with the back of her hand. Her legs constricted and squeezed his ab-covered waist like an anaconda squeezing an iron pillar. It flashed to Sir Athelstane briefly that if he were not in this powerful body, sex with Erzhad would make him walk a little funny for the rest of his life. It would probably be worth it.

Their bestial moans and wild-shut-eyed, hair tossing grunts grew louder and louder and merged with one another like a pair of mating alley cats. Undeniably, they could be heard from one end of the Maharaja's palace to the other, and the earthquake-pounding of their coitus could no doubt be felt. The shake even caused some of the weapons in the Princess's room to fall and strike the ground.

Sir Athelstane roared triumphantly and with finality. It was as if a vacuum pump had been connected to the middle of the Princess's body, and started filling her up like a balloon. Her entire body twitched and shook with the twanging vibrations of his shooting anaconda as if exploding firecrackers had been placed in her midsection.

The Princess's entire petite body's muscles and joints locked and everything from her toes and fingers clenched, her nails biting into her palm, her teeth gnashed. Sir Athelstane unsheathed himself from her with a rough slide and a pop, but Princess Rupali could not move. She was swimming in pleasure; the room felt like it was spinning and she was on a crashing, plunging wave at the same time. Moving her head felt like moving a planet, but she looked down at herself and saw she could not see past her stuffed, oversized new gut filled with his seed, that rose surprisingly from her slim body like an inner tube. Her chest rose and fell, heaved as she gasped for breath.

Erzhad could feel Sir Athelstane's arms wrap around her waist and hold her naked body to his. So, that was sex. She felt such joy that at any moment her heart could burst, and simultaneously she felt so emotional that she could cry. But as she was disgusted with her own vulnerability at times, she kept the tears inside.

When she had time to come down from her high, the Princess commanded the palace slaves and mamelukes to bring her dinner – only she would eat it off the White Christian's naked body.

Erzhad read in her lascivious, horny breathy voice chapters from the Kama-Sutra, until his pole stuck out and rose like a unicorn's horn. She would lick it with her lengthy, hot, wide tongue the endless seed that came from its fist-sized tip like a fountain.

Their discussions eventually veered away from sex onto food, classical Greek literature, and Sir Athelstane told jokes that made the Princess laugh. The Princess spoke with a quiet voice and occasional cough, as the lovemaking screaming had made her hoarse.

"Methinks chickpea paste tastes far better when licked off your hard stomach, Sir Sigurd."

"Heh! I can't imagine anything would make that taste good. I love the East, but what I would not give for some good pickled herring and porridge –"

"Aha! I called you Sir Sigurd! Your bad Greek was the first clue. Your humor, your demeanor, your jokes...you called me 'My Diana' when you entered my room."

Sir Athelstane wanted to kick himself for thinking he was anything less than perfectly transparent to the Princess Erzhad. She was smarter than him. Fierce, and formidably intelligent. He heard she spoke sixteen languages.

"Aye! You have sniffed me out, my Diana."

"Tell me the truth and leave not a bit out. Not a single detail."

He did so. All Danes could do three things: fish, pilot a boat, and tell the truth.

"Lord Shiva...it is beyond my comprehension. But not beyond my imagination." She said at the conclusion. "The poison wine was cold, you say? It meant that he was poisoned while the Norman went to get us. Sir Athelstane did not know how little time he actually had..." She said, wistfully.

"Then it could not have been the Norman. How I wish it was! He has treachery about him. He's guilty of being a pompous ass if naught else."

"Oh! I have already deduced the identity of the traitor. What's more, I have a ruse that will draw the traitor out of hiding." The Princess Erzhad told her lover her plan and the identity of the traitor. "But first I will need a thing from the palace smith." The Princess kissed her husband hotly on the lips.

"I hope you shall return for the second round." He said, and the Princess felt a hot knob tap her on the middle of her thigh.

"By the Vedas, love! If there were six of me you'd not be satisfied!"

"I only want one of you." He said, and pressed his lips to her soft ones. Their mouths went concave from the suction power that almost threatened to take suck the entire Princess's face into his mouth; the Saxon could taste the princess's honeylike sweetness. His tongue filled her mouth. When the kiss broke, the Princess felt as if she could faint and leaned her arm against a drawer to keep from falling.